


Checkmate

by catmiint



Category: Pretend Wizards D&D Campaign
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grieving, Hurt & Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmiint/pseuds/catmiint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dweezil stays overnight at Snow's house after their sort-of-party divvying up the loot the Bai Ze gave them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

Dweezil looked around the room, carefully examining the spines of books sitting neatly on the shelves. Shira’s study was nice, in its own way, and almost made him forget that she was even more cut off from a source of money than he was. At least his family still had money, while the Snow clan was unregrettably run dry. He supposed that it was through little fault of the family, it seemed, as it turns out her parents had been targeted by the Tom Tit Tot club instead of one of many nobles with disdain for the Snows. Still, his own situation of being cut off by his father was made better by knowledge that he was not the only one in Tartan Quarter going through a financial rough patch. 

 

The study simultaneously looked immaculate and frequently used. Books that were missing from the book shelf didn’t look out of place, instead appearing to belong haphazardly thrown onto a lounge chair. The sheathes of old letters sent to the late Snows and open ledgers with notes scrawled in the margins adorned the room, but each stack of papers was straightened and open book perfectly aligned. It was not the first time that Dweezil envied the Snow family for their renown butler, Nettles. 

 

What drew his attention, though, was the simple yet elegantly crafted chess set on a table in the corner of the study. The game appeared to be one between two quick-witted opponents—both white and black having lost pieces but far from defeated. He never thought Shira to be a player of chess, so he approached the set with a critical eye. The black pieces were made out of smooth ebony wood and the white out of pearlescent ivory. A fine work of craftsmanship, not deserving to be shoved in the corner without a second thought. 

 

Dweezil plucked the black king from the board, smoothing a thumb over the base of it, and then set to work returning the pieces to their resting positions. Slowly, he saw the game unfold in reverse and was impressed with those that had played it. 

 

The door opened forcefully, and, before Dweezil could turn around, Shira growled out, “What the fuck are you doing?” 

 

Hardly startled at Shira being antagonistic but concerned at the possibility of ending up with a dagger in his back, Dweezil turned around to face her, hands held up in mock submission. “Yeah, that’s my question,” he drawled, “What exactly am I doing that warrants such a friendly reception?” 

 

“This is my study, Zappa, so stop touching that and get the fuck out.” Her hood was down, and he got a rare look at her face, obviously enraged but her eyes rimmed with red. Huh. Dweezil wasn’t even aware that Shira could feel emotions other than anger, disdain, or frustration. Or murder. No one could convince him that murder wasn’t an emotion after meeting Shira Snow.

 

“Come on, Snow, you said I could stay the night."

 

“Actually Nettles said you could stay the night, and not in my private fucking study,” her voice was low and gravelly as she stalked closer to him, eyes flicking between the chess piece in his hand and the half-reset board.

 

Dweezil tossed the chess piece from hand to hand, raising an eyebrow at her. "Maybe I wanted to play a game of chess, and I am your guest—shouldn't it be your duty as a host to make my stay most comfortable?" He could immediately tell that he had pushed Shira into one of her fussy moods, bitching about anything and everything. 

 

"Okay, fine, but there are other fucking chessboards in this house. Use any of those but," she paused and made sure to stare directly down at him, her teary glare looking more pathetic than threatening, "not that one."

 

"C'mon Shira it's just a chessboard—although I'll admit it's one of the nicest ones I've seen—what could possibly be so special about it?"

 

Shira snatched the chess piece he was holding and pushed past him, looking down at board. It took a few moments for her to speak (and Dweezil thought she was going to kick him out of her house), but she murmured in a rasp, "I was playing chess with my father the evening he died. Nettles made us pause the game to come to dinner and," she choked on her words, "we never got to finish."

 

"Damn Snow, I didn't know," Dweezil responded, examining her carefully. Gods forbid but he felt a twinge of guilt for messing with the chessboard. Only a little bit though since obviously he didn't care for the elf. Not a bit. 

 

"Don't pity me," she snapped suddenly, whipping around and scowling at him with a fierce intensity. He could tell that she was trying not to cry, likely due to memories being brought up, and he was struck with the realization of it all. Sure Shira was a bitch, but she was just some kid by elf standards and six months isn't a long time when you're all elfy. Maybe part of her irritability was because of the mess with her parents? And she just found out her sister wasn't as safe as she thought. 

 

Shira really didn't have anyone besides Morty's Boyz...

 

Dweezil steeled himself, wary of Shira getting stab happy, and sat down in one of the cozy arm chairs. With careful hands he finished returning the pieces to their resting positions, much to Shira's incredulity. 

 

"Wh–what are you doing?"

 

Oh boy was she  _ pissed _ . 

 

"Let's play a game,"—it was more of a command than a suggestion—"having this sitting here? It's just bringing up shit every time you look at it. Gotta make some good memories to go on top of the bad ones."

 

"Make good memories?" she echoed with a disgusted edge, "Are you trying to come onto me?"

 

"Ew, ugh, of course not," he mimed throwing up, "you're an angsty teen, so it would be pretty sketchy if I tried to woo you. Besides, elves aren't my type."

 

“Then if you’re not trying to woo me or some bullshit, what is this?” Her voice was hard, accusing.

 

Dweezil shrugged vaguely and responded, “We’re partners, been through a lot together. With all this weird shit going on, the team’s gonna need to be at it’s best, so it’s in my best interest to try to help you out a bit.”  He plucked the white king from its proper spot on the chess board and held it out to her. 

 

Silence passed between them, the tension in Shira’s posture and expression making Dweezil’s fingers itch towards the sword at his side in case he needed to defend himself. She was thinking over it, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. It was like watching a feral cat not know what to do when offered food—as if she was waiting for Dweezil to take back his awkward yet friendly gesture and mock her for believing him. 

 

Then, tentatively as if Dweezil would pull back his hand and yell  _ “psyche!” _ , Shira reached out to grab the chess piece from him. She rolled it between her forefinger and thumb, not meeting his gaze and mumbling low, “Okay, Zappa, let’s play.” 

 

He settled back into one of the plush leather armchairs that flanked the table with the chessboard, grinning almost smugly as he watched Shira take a seat across from him. “White goes first.” 

 

“Hm,” Shira scoffed with an eye roll as she made her first move, “so you’re that type of player.”

 

Dweezil moved a pawn. “What do you mean by that?” 

 

“You make your first plans based on what others do,” Shira leaned forward after her turn, “You did give me white, after all.” 

 

“I was simply being a gentleman—ladies first, after all,” he quipped and glanced at her face with a critical eye. She had a pretty good poker face. Or, chess face, as it was. 

 

She rolled her eyes again, which almost made Dweezil roll his own. Was her  _ only _ response to be a snarky shit and roll her eyes? Yeah, Snow was just  _ so _ fucking witty and clever.

 

“So,” he began, changing the subject, “what’s your deal?” 

 

Shira scowled at him, setting down a knight with sudden ferocity. “What do you mean by  _ that _ ?”

 

“You came in all huffy and upset.” Dweezil was careful to avoid mentioning that he knew she had been crying as he took her knight with his rook. 

 

“Like you care,” she hissed, hands curling into fists in her lap. Dweezil didn’t respond and instead let her work through her clusterfuck of emotional problems enough to talk again. She chewed on her lip, then gave in, “It’s my sister.” 

 

He prompted her to continue, “And?” 

 

“And she’s fucking  _ missing _ , you jackass.”  Her biting tone was accompanied by the swift capturing of the black rook, Shira forcefully replacing it with her own pawn. 

 

Dweezil wasn’t sure he could relate—he had never been close with any of his many siblings. He was a middle child with nothing expected of him. It was possible some of his siblings hadn’t even noticed he had been kicked out of the main estate. No one had written or dropped by yet, a sign that his absence left the Zappa household more or less unchanged.  The concept of Shira being so emotionally involved with her sister was foreign to him, so his next words were awkward and halting, “Are you—are you close to her?”

 

Shira said nothing as he moved his queen to discourage the rook-taking pawn from making a pass at the black king. A smart move, she was intending to check on her next turn. Trying to clear the tightness from her throat, she swallowed. Her voice strained as she spoke next, “I love her very much.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

She didn’t appear to notice Dweezil’s awkward pause, which was good for him. He was a bit frightened of what Shira may do if she decided to lash out at him. There would probably be knives involved, and he eyed a glass of water nearby warily. 

 

“When our parents died, were  _ murdered”— _ she spat the word—”I promised that I would protect her. I wanted nothing more than to hug her and never let go, but I couldn’t be selfish. She would never be safe in Atla, so I tried to get her out. I thought she was safe, but…” 

 

“Is she still somewhere in Atla?” Dweezil questioned, frowning slightly as Shira moved her bishop oddly. He wasn’t sure what she planned to do with that. 

 

“I don’t fucking  _ know, _ ” Shira ground out, voice raw and dangerous. It was hard to tell whether she was on the verge of crying or stabbing something. “Apparently she ended up at Sielle Manor, which is fucking  _ great _ considering how things there turned out. And Waverly said that she left with Nundenday.” 

 

That caught Dweezil off guard, wasn’t Nundenday assosiated with the Days of the Week and Tom Tit Tot while the Sielles and Snows were with the Unseelie? With every scrap of information they learned, ten more questions turned up. It felt like they weren’t getting anywhere. 

 

He voiced this, “Left with? As in willingly? Did we miss something—is Nundenday not  _ with  _ the rest of the Weekdays?” 

 

Shira shook her head vigorously, “I know as much as you, Zappa, I have no goddamn clue.” 

 

“That really sucks,” Dweezil offered, not sure how to comfort Shira. She was so closed off and vicious that the sudden vulnerability she showed him was startling. He had wanted to try his hand at helping the group’s teen member, but didn’t expect to get this far. 

 

She moved her bishop again with trembling hands, the piece almost falling over as she set it down. Tears could be seen forming in the corners of her eyes as she struggled to speak, “Ch–check.” 

 

So that’s what she had been doing with the bishop, Dweezil mused as he scooted his king to another square. He looked from the board to Shira’s face, watching the expressions war on her face. From passive apathy to rage to unrestrained grief—Shira looked like she couldn’t decide which emotion best fit the way she felt.

 

“I promised on their  _ graves _ . On their fucking graves, Zappa!” Her voice had risen in pitch to a note of hysteria, gaze frantically darting between their game of chess, his face, and the door—stuck between a fight or flight reaction. 

 

Dweezil hastily removed himself from the comforting embrace of the armchair, abandoning their game in favor of hovering at Shira’s side, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder in a show of comfort. 

 

She slapped it away, screaming as she did so, “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME.” 

 

He recoiled, hand springing to his side and tightening around the hilt of his sword. Shira, however, didn’t make any move to attack him. Instead she curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest and burying her head in them. At some point she had removed hair from the neat ponytail, and it now was splayed about her, fingers tangled in it at the base of her neck. If Dweezil had to guess, she seemed to be on the edge of a panic attack like in Sielle Manor. He didn’t know what to do—Ragna had dealt with her before. 

 

“Just, let me  _ help you, _ ” there was almost a pleading note to his voice as he reached out again and placed a, what he thought to be comforting, hand on her back. 

 

Shira jerked away, snowy hair catching and pulling in his grip as she did. She didn’t seem to mind or even notice, though, and she snapped viciously at him once again in between quick, shallow breaths, “I don’t need anyone’s help.” 

 

“Oh,  _ sure _ you don’t, Snow,” He replied sarcastically, hands on his hips even if she wasn’t looking at him. 

 

“I don’t! Now get the fuck  _ out _ of my house!”  Her head tilted up this time, eyes wide and pupils dialated. She apparently also didn’t notice the crocodile tears streaming down her face or the quivering of her lip that made her sentences awkward and stilted rather than threatening. 

 

“Fucking  _ hell _ , Snow, there’s nothing wrong with accepting some help from time to time. Morty’s Boyz? We’re here to help you,  _ I’m  _ here to help you.”

 

Wild eyed and snarling like a feral cat, she grabbed his collar and pulled him close to her face, “Well maybe I don’t fucking deserve any help, okay? I  _ failed  _ my family and now I’m just dealing with the shit consequences. So stop pretending like you care and LEAVE.” 

 

On any other day, he might have pissed himself for fear of Shira shoving a dagger in his gut, but now he looked at her and felt pity weighing heavy in his body. She was hyperventilating and cheeks slick with tears and sweat, but she still was trying to be her regular bitchface self. Trying to be tough and threatening, too intimidating for most to even look her way. But, she was quivering and shaking as she held him up by his jacket. 

 

So, Dweezil pried her hands off of his clothing and gathered her into his arms. It was a bit of an awkward hug, since she was sitting as he stood. Shira was all gangly limbs and elven height while Dweezil was an average dwarven height. They weren’t exactly the best combination of people to throw together and make hug, but Dweezil felt that it was the right thing to do at the moment. 

 

She was rigid in his grip for a few moments from the shock of it, but he felt her anger melt away only to be replaced by the grief and self-loathing regret she had kept hidden away for so long. Head buried in his neck, sobs wracked her body violently. “I miss them so fucking much, Dweezil.” 

 

He pulled her tighter in response, tangling a hand in the hair at the back of her skull, “We’re going to get through this, Shira,” he whispered softly, “We’ll find those in the TTT responsible for your parents’ deaths, and we’ll find your sister.” 

 

“Moira,” Shira managed to choke out between sobs, “Her name is Moira.” 

 

“We’ll find Moira, I promise.” 


End file.
